The Sacrifice
by Catslynw
Summary: Post The Great Game. Moriarty wants revenge after The Pool. He hits upon a unique and twisted way to get it. John/Moriarty. Asexual Sherlock. John/Mycroft one-sided in later chapters. Graphic description of dub-con.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: Not my usual fare, I know. Hope you all enjoy it nonetheless. Remember reviews are love, especially on this one as I am feeling a bit uncertain about the non-traditional – for me – subject matter. Thanks, Catslynw. _

The Sacrifice

John was reaching to flick on the lamp just inside his bedroom door when a hand clamped down on his wrist, the grip bruising. He swung automatically, military training taking over before his mind had even completely registered the threat, but there was a sudden pressure against his ribcage and a jolt passed through him. Stun gun he thought as his knees buckled and his face slammed into the oaken floorboards. The light came on. His muscles were hard knots of pain, his body rigid, and it seemed to go on forever as he stared unblinking at the shoes of the man before him. They looked strangely familiar, kind of like pair that Sherlock wore when a case required him to _dress the part._ Berluti, his brain finally supplied. Berluti. Berluti. Berluti. It was a broken record. Then, suddenly as it had begun, the attack ended and every muscle in John's body went limp, leaving him vibrating on the floor.

"Interesting," Moriarty drawled in that affected falsetto of his. "You didn't scream, but I bet I can change that."

Moriarty. Fuck. Fuck. Sherlock was downstairs asleep on the sofa. Not just asleep either, but deeply asleep, under the influence of healthy dose of vicodin, and wrapped tight in a back brace that the consulting detective had compared blisteringly to a straight jacket. It was the only way he _could_ sleep since the bloody explosion at the bloody pool where Moriarty had done his best to kill them both. John flinched as hands grabbed him under the armpits, lifted him off the cold floor and dumped him unceremoniously on the bed. He lay there, twisted and awkward, one arm angled beneath him, his body spasming. He could hear Moriarty moving around the room behind his back. The lamp beside the bed came on. There came the sound items being shoved willy-nilly off the lowboy and then a larger, solid item being set down in their place. He heard a small click that he couldn't quite identify followed by the sound of typing. A laptop then. Time crawled by as bursts of pain shot through him at random intervals.

"You should be able to talk now, Johnny boy," Moriarty said, a sneer in his voice. "You could try moving, too. I do so want to get the show on the road."

Reluctant to comply with anything the madman asked of him, John tried to roll over nevertheless. It took an inordinate amount of effort, but he finally managed to get his elbows firmly planted on the duvet, his shaking arms supporting his upper body as he levered it up, unwilling to face Moriarty while lying down. "What in the bleeding hell do you want?" he demanded, pleased that his voice, at least, was steady.

"Gooood," Moriarty sang, smiling at him. "Straight to the point. That's excellent. No time to waste. No time at all, knowing the kind of surveillance that Big Brother has on you."

"Who?" John asked frowning, unable to help himself.

Moriarty waved the question aside, then brushed an imaginary bit of dust from his waistcoat. He wasn't wearing his jacket, and John soon spotted it draped carefully over the back of his bedside chair, a fact that disconcerted him oddly. "To business. You are going let me bang you. What's more, you're going to participate."

"No, I'm bloody not!" John ejaculated instinctively. He tried to edge off the bed, but discovered rapidly that his muscles weren't yet up to that much movement.

"Oh, yes, you are," Moriarty countered, tapping the screen of the open laptop with one long finger. John's eyes were drawn the image there, and he felt himself go completely still, despite the tremors that still rippled through his muscles. There was a video window open, the Skype logo clearly visible. In the video display, John could see both the sleeping Sherlock and a stranger wearing a balaclava and pointing a sidearm at his flatmate. John's eyes darted back to Moriarty's face, grimacing at the amusement he saw clearly in those fox-like features. His heart pounded inside him like kettle drum. "What are you going to do to Sherlock?"

"Nothing at all if you cooperate, Dr. Watson," Moriarty assured him. Then, smiling broadly, he added, "I told you that you'd rather given yourself away."

"So you want to fuck me?" John shot back, swallowing dryly. "Somehow, I'm not buying. Doubt I'm your type."

"Not usually, no," Moriarty agreed. "But you see, I've hit on the most delicious idea. Absolutely ace! I can either shag you, or I can go downstairs and shag Sherlock."

John jerked toward the psychopath, unable to stop the "No!" that burst instinctively from his lips.

"You do know that he's utterly asexual," Moriarty went on, in a tone like a purr. "I've done my research, loads of it, and dear Sherlock has never had sex. Near as I can tell, he's never even snogged anyone. An utter and complete virgin. I… I could be his _first_." The madman bounced on the balls of his feet, his whole body quivering in evident anticipation.

"Bastard," John hissed, tensing his muscles, ready to spring off the bed and obliterate Moriarty. The man didn't even seem to be carrying a firearm.

"Uh, uh, uh," he said, waggling a finger at John. "This feed goes two ways. Attack me, and my colleague will shoot darling Sherlock before coming up here to finish you off."

"Prove it!"

Rolling his eyes, Moriarty turned and waved at the screen. The minion saluted back, and John had his proof. Grudgingly, he forced his body to relax, conveying the message he couldn't bring himself to say with words. _Fine. You win. I'll just lay here like a good little boy._

"Good boy. You really are a well trained pet."

"Bugger off!"

"That's idea, yes."

"Why? Why me?" he asked, shaking his head in denial… puzzlement… and yes, he admitted to himself, fear.

"Well, as I said, it's a choice between shagging Sherlock, our unawakened little virgin – " Moriarty tapped the computer screen for emphasis before moving to stand directly beside the bed – "and forcing you, a rampantly heterosexual male, to have willing sex with _me_. I know which one of you I'd prefer to have a go at, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it will bother Sherlock immensely more this way." Moriarty began to remove his waistcoat, staring fixedly at John's face the entire time.

Horrorstruck, John could only stare back at him. It was too horrific to contemplate. Thanks to his investigations and studies, Sherlock might know everything that could factually be known about sex and affairs and infidelity, but Moriarty was right. He was asexual and he probably was a virgin. Hell, he didn't even like to be touched most of the time, and the idea of _that_ happening to _him_…

"What's it going to be Dr. Watson? Though I suppose," he said, contorting his features in a mock-bashful expression, "I suppose I should call you John, under the circumstances."

John's gaze drifted back the computer, to the image of his sleeping friend. It wasn't really a question, was it? No choice at all. Moving slowly to the edge of his bed, John began unbuttoning his heavy canvas coat with hands that shook not at all.

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Note: Here's part two. This is my first time ever writing a scene of quite this nature, so please let me know what you think. Again, very graphic so be warned. _

The Sacrifice

Chapter 2

Moriarty watched, humming softly to himself as John slowly stripped off the layers of his clothing. God, where was Mycroft's bloody surveillance when they actually needed it? Where was Lestrade? This would be the perfect time for the DI to come bounding up the stairs with a case that Sherlock just had to look into _right now_. Hell, at the moment, John would settle for Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan and her on-again off-again fling, Carl Anderson. They might hurl insults and innuendo, they might hate Sherlock's ruddy guts, but they'd stop this rubbish right in its bloody tracks. Outer shirt unbuttoned and removed. Jumper off. Inner shirt off. Vest off. All folded neatly and piled beside him on the bed. Moriarty's humming grew louder. Was he getting impatient? John didn't want to look at him to find out. He kicked off his shoes, kicking them straight at the bastard, earning an amused chuckle from his tormentor and a cessation of the humming. He pulled off his socks and then stood to remove his trousers. He still didn't want to meet the man's eyes, couldn't bear to see the insanity lurking there – the arse was mad as a bag of ferrets! – but looking constantly down felt too much like giving up, too much like surrender, and the soldier in him just couldn't do it. So he stared past Moriarty as he unbuckled his belt, gaze fixed on the computer screen where the masked minion was sitting in _his_ sodding chair, a newspaper open on his knee and the pistol fixed firmly on the sleeping Sherlock. John ground his teeth, fury burning like ice inside him, filling his veins with a cold hatred that could only end in death for one of them. There was something so infuriating, so _offensive_ about the man sitting there, flipping through the daily rag while John was being – while Sherlock slept on unawares. Why it made it him madder than Moriarty's perverse demands, he couldn't say, but that tosser was going to die if John had his way. Dead man walking.

John had pulled his belt free, setting it carefully atop his discarded clothing, and had undone the zip on his trousers when Moriarty abruptly closed the distance between them, knocked John off his feet and shoved him back onto the bed. John landed on his bum, catching himself with outflung hands. Moriarty knelt quickly over the top of him, one trousered thigh between John's legs, balancing on the edge of the bed. John froze, instinct fighting choice. He'd agreed to this. He'd agreed. Throwing the git across the room would definitely be breaking that agreement. John's thoughts cut off as Moriarty grabbed his wrists and slid them underneath him, holding them at the small of John's back, causing him to fall the rest of the way to the bed. The madman lowered his head and licked up the center of John's torso, from his navel to his sternum. "Fuck!" John exclaimed, shocked and disgusted by the assault, and suddenly in no doubt that Moriarty was dead serious about the programme he'd proposed.

"Careful, Johnny boy," Moriarty remonstrated, raising his head from John's chest and staring into his eyes. "Wouldn't want to wake Sherlock… or worse, that dear, dim landlady of yours. Mrs. Hudson is a bit of a nosy neighbour, and I never made any promises about killing her." John slammed his mouth closed on a blistering retort, clenching his teeth so hard that the ache spiked from his jaw to the top of his skull. "Good, boy," Moriarty praised. "You are a quick learner." He leaned closer and flicked his tongue at John's chin. John jerked away, his head pressing into the duvet, but Moriarty just followed, his lips ghosting from John's chin to the hinge of his jaw. They lingered there for a moment before the monster settled closer, his nose practically in John's ear, his tongue darting in and out like a lizard's. John's heart pounded like a jack-hammer in his chest as Moriarty settled atop him, the madman's bulk weighing him down. His wrists throbbed beneath him, and he tried to work them loose, only to have Moriarty tighten his hold and thrust his hips against John's, pushing him even more firmly into the mattress.

"I like your hands where they are for now, pet," Moriarty breathed into his ear before nipping at his earlobe with his teeth.

"Why are you doing this," John hissed, desperately. "I mean, why _this_?"

Moriarty pulled back, eyeing him with exasperation eerily similar to the looks Sherlock so often favored him with. "Isn't it obvious?" he asked, all trace of the fake falsetto gone from his voice, leaving behind a rich tenor that made the hairs on the back of John's neck stand on end. "You were willing to die for Sherlock. I simply _had_ to find out what else you'd be willing to do for him."

John swallowed, forcing himself to hold Moriarty's gaze. "Marvelous. You've found out. Why don't you leave off now?"

Moriarty tsked. "But I'm just starting to have fun." Pulling sharply on John's wrists, he used their gripped hands to yank John's hips upward, grinding their pelvises together. John had never had sex with a man before, had never been pressed up against another man's erection, but there was no mistaking the feel of the lump in Moriarty's trousers, and John swallowed bile. The madman just laughed and dove downward, latching onto a nipple with his teeth and pulling. John spasmed, fighting not to make a sound as the other man pulled repeatedly at the sensitive nub. He couldn't stop himself from grunting, though, and the sound seemed to have an electrifying effect on Moriarty. "God, I wish I could hear you scream," he moaned, "but Daddy doesn't want to wake the baby." The lilting falsetto was back, rising and falling like a rocker. Head twisting side to side, still lizard-like, Moriarty sniffed at John's chest. "You smell different. You've changed your soap since the last time I saw you." John shuddered at the strange intimacy of the statement, the movement rippling through his entire frame, and Moriarty sighed with pleasure. "Oh, that feels brilliant. Do it again."

John went stock still, fighting his own vibrating muscles, muscles that still ached abominably from the electrical stun. His hands felt as if they were going numb. His back twinged from the strange position Moriarty had pulled his hips into, and his head throbbed more than ever as his teeth clenched so hard that he feared they'd break. Moriarty sniffed his way back up John's chest, nuzzling against his straining ribcage, licking at a nipple as he passed before settling his lips against the pulse point at the base of John's neck. He swiped at the area with his revolting tongue, like some perverted nurse disinfecting a patch of skin before a shot. Then, without warning, he bit down hard. John gasped and jerked away, bouncing them both on the bed, the movement pulling at the skin clamped between Moriarty's teeth. He groaned, unable to help himself as Moriarty crooked his head to the side, twisting the skin of John's throat painfully. Bugger, he thought, horrorstruck, there'll be teeth marks. Fuck.

Moriarty released his clench on John's skin only to begin sucking at it like a bloody Hoover, and despite his best efforts to remain detached from this insanity, to show no fear, John felt himself begin to tremble. The idea of the bastard leaving such a visible mark of his attack behind appalled John. Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous to assume that Moriarty _wasn't _going to mark him in every way imaginable. If John came out of this with a square-inch of undamaged skin, he'd be surprised. If he came out of this at all, he'd be surprised.

Please, God, let me live. Please, let Sherlock live. Please, God…

Releasing him, Moriarty backed quickly off the bed. The sudden rush of blood returning to his benumbed hands was excruciating, and John rolled onto his side, curling into a ball and cradling his hands in front of him protectively. The skin was swollen and stiff, bruises already coming in on the tender skin of his wrists. He could hear Moriarty moving beside the bed, fabric sliding against skin, the dull double thunk of shoes hitting the floorboards, and he cringed, knowing what that meant was coming. I'll get through this somehow, he thought, saying the words to himself again and again. I'll get through this and dance on the bastard's grave. I'll get –

Hands closed around his ankles and John was flipped once more onto his back. Still holding his hands against his abdomen, John could only close his eyes and fight to control his breathing as Moriarty hooked his fingers into the waistbands of both his trousers and his pants and slid them slowly down his body. He wanted to kick the monster's testicles so hard they'd lodge in sodding throat. He wanted to yell his bloody lungs out and have a whole and healthy Sherlock come running up the stairs to bash Moriarty's brains in. Most of all, he wanted to dig his Sig out of his nightstand drawer, put the barrel to Moriarty's head and pull the trigger. Twice.

The trousers pulled free of John's feet and he opened his eyes again as Moriarty settled on the edge of the bed. The madman reached out and ran a hand from John's scarred shoulder, across his chest, over his ribcage and down onto his abdomen. His hand trailed slowly, torturously, dragging out the suspense, but even so John was emotionally unprepared for the fingers that twirled in his pubic hair. His body reacted without any approval from his mind. Suddenly, he found himself sitting up on the bed, one hand around Moriarty's throat, the other twisting the offending hand backwards, on the verge of dislocating the bastard's elbow. Moriarty's eyes were wide, shocked, his eyebrows climbing. One little pop, John thought, one squeeze and I could fucking end him. Moriarty must have realized it too because, though his head didn't move, his eyes tracked across the room to the computer screen and lingered there meaningfully. John began to shake in earnest now. He could kill this man. He wouldn't even be the first, but there was no way he could guarantee to himself that he could kill Moriarty before the man sounded the alarm. One wrong noise, and the newspaper-reading minion would kill Sherlock. Was it worth the risk? Looking back at him, Moriarty must have read John's answer in his eyes because a smug, dark smile spread across his lips. Gradually releasing his hold on the bastard, John fell back onto the bed, his entire body shaking with inexpressible rage. He pressed the heels of hands against his eyes, unable to look at Moriarty an instant longer. This was happening. It was _going_ to happen. For fuck's sake, where was Mycroft and his bloody all-seeing eye? Where was the damned cavalry? Why he had agreed to this madness?

Because, he thought resignedly, because I just couldn't let Moriarty take what little innocence Sherlock has left.

"And here I thought you were all fur coat and no knickers," Moriarty purred, his tones gone deep again as he slapped a hand possessively onto John's hip. He leaned down, and John stiffened as he heard the drawer of his nightstand opening. "Let's make this more interesting," Moriarty sang, and John opened his eyes as a solid weight landed on the duvet beside his shoulder. It was his Sig. _His_ Sig! His eyes shot to Moriarty's, his pulse speeding up so rapidly that the bastard almost had to be able to hear it. Was Moriarty going to shoot him with his own sidearm? "You choice, Johnny boy, shoot me or shag me. Just remember, whatever you choose to do, you choose the consequences too."

"I made my choice," John said softly, letting his gaze drift away from Moriarty and back to the pistol. It lay there, fully loaded and deadly, emphasizing his helplessness, mocking his lack of options.

Then, before he could say more, Moriarty was on top of him, body pressed full length against John's own, hands clamped bruisingly on John's hips as the madman rubbed against him like an overly affectionate dog. John dropped his hands to his sides and twisted his fingers into the duvet, holding on for dear life. He couldn't afford to attack Moriarty again no matter how badly he wanted to. Even a madman would run out of patience with that game eventually. One hand slid from John's hip to the small of his back, the other wormed its way between their bodies and the bed, cupping John's buttock. He gasped as fingers toyed with the crack between his cheeks, one finger tapping at his anus. His hands twisted, fisting in the duvet cover as he trembled beneath the serial killer about to turn rapist.

Moriarty hummed in appreciation as John squirmed. He must have really like the sensation, because he trailed his fingertips repeatedly over John's anus, until John was quivering fit to shake the bed. "You can't imagine how arousing it is to have you beneath me like this, unbound, deadly, and yet utterly, utterly helpless. You hate every touch, loathe every caress, but you won't fight me, will you, pet? You know how that would end. How it must infuriate you, having to tolerate my lowly attentions, knowing the entire time that you could crush my throat with one well-placed thrust." Moriarty kneaded John's arse as he spoke, thrust his pelvis against John's. His erection slammed against John's own limp penis, hot and heavy. "Does Sherlock realise how dangerous you are?" Moriarty demanded. "Does he know you did more than heal people in that little war you fought? I'm sure Big Brother must know, with his abundance resources. Tell me, how many different ways could you kill me in this position with just your bare hands? Hmmm?"

"Seven!" John growled, hands clenched at his sides, useless as fuck. "Would you shut it!"

Moriarty chuckled. "You're a funny little fish, John, but I wouldn't throw you back, pet. No. I'm beginning to see why Sherlock keeps you around." John shivered, sickened, as Moriarty pushed the tip of a finger again his anus, hinting at darker things to come. "Pity he'll never know what he's missing, not tasting your skin, but then it's all just transport to him. You could certainly transport me, John… and you will. I'm going to ride you to Heaven tonight."

John huffed out a bitter laugh. "Bit cliché, don't you think?"

"Criticising now, are we? Let's see if I can't give you something else to think about." John shut his eyes and turned his head away as Moriarty brought his face within inches of his own, his foul breathe hot again John's skin. "Be a good pet and kiss me."

John gagged at the very thought. The finger at his anus had begun to push harder and he shuddered. A hand clamped vice-like on his jaw, turning his head round to face Moriarty, and –

"Boss?" They both jumped and John opened his eyes as the door to his room swung shut behind his new visitor. He hadn't even heard the footsteps on the stairs. "Boss, we're blown!" the man in the balaclava hissed urgently. The man in the balaclava! John's gaze darted to the computer screen – Sherlock still asleep and utterly _alone_ – then his hand darted for the Sig. His finger had just touched grip when a heavy weight slammed in the side of his head and the world went away.

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's Note: Okay, so I said this was going to be a four part series. I think it may actually turn out to be five or even six. I hope that doesn't irritate anyone too much. Anyway, remember that reviews are love, so let me know what you think and give a shout if you notice any glaringly out of place Americanisms._

Chapter 3

Lestrade was just climbing into his car after re-interviewing a witness in Blandford Square – though why the woman had suddenly felt a burning need to change her story at two in the ruddy morning instead of eight he didn't know – when he got the call. The little screen on his mobile said, "Number Blocked," as he raised it to his ear and hit the Send button. "Lestrade."

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, there has been a break in at 221b Baker St. Armed assailants may be holding the occupants hostage." The caller didn't identify herself, but it was a woman's voice, posh.

"Who is this?" Lestrade asked, shocked.

"Please respond immediately," she said without answering him.

"Why are you calling me? How did you get this number, and why haven't you called 999?" Lestrade demanded, already pulling his car into the sparse traffic along Harewood Avenue.

"Please hurry, detective. We have reason to believe that lives may be in immediate danger." The call disconnected.

"Shit!" Lestrade flicked on his lights and placed a hasty call of his own to the dispatch officer to explain what was happening and where he was going. The call was met with the intelligence that he was the closest officer to the scene and that the CO19 had received similar information and SFOs were being dispatched even as they spoke. None of that alleviated the detective's anxiety in the slightest, and Lestrade floored it, speeding toward Baker St., grateful for the uncharacteristic lack of fog at this time of year.

He pulled the car to a screeching halt in front of Speedy's Sandwich Bar, informed dispatch of his arrival and then hopped out. Barely taking the time to strap on a ballistic vest, he ran straight for the door of 221b Baker St. The front door was not locked, and Lestrade eased it open, his baton fully extended at his side. Slipping through the door, he pulled his torch as well and clicked it on just in time to earn a shriek from Sherlock's landlady, Mrs. Hudson, whom he surprised coming out of the door to her own flat. The poor woman's heart was pounding so hard that Lestrade could feel it through her robe as he backed her up against the wall and placed the hand with the baton gently over her mouth, shushing her. "Mrs. Hudson, calm down," he whispered urgently. He could see it in her eyes the moment the older woman recognized him, and she nodded weakly. "Are you alright?" She nodded again. "Can you keep quiet?" he hissed. When she nodded again, wide-eyed, Lestrade took his hand from her mouth. "Mrs. Hudson, have you seen or heard anything strange this evening?"

"I just saw your lights," she gasped, "and I got out of bed to see what – "

"No one's broken in?"

"No!" she said a bit more loudly, and Lestrade shushed her again.

"I got a call that someone has broken into 221b and your front door was unlocked."

"No, it wasn't," she protested indignantly. "I locked it myself before I went to lie down. I never leave it open, and Sherlock always locks up whenever he leaves in the middle of the night. He knows I'm afraid of burglars and – "

"Mrs. Hudson, I want you to go back in your flat and stay there with the lights off until more help arrives. Can you do that?"

"But – "

"I have to go upstairs and search for intruders. I need you to stay here," he repeated. When she nodded reluctantly, Lestrade backed away, watched her close the door of her flat behind her and then started slowly up the stairs, his torch guiding the way. The door to 221b was closed, the first serious sign he'd seen that something was truly and definitely wrong at Baker St. Sherlock never closed that bloody door. It was almost as if the consulting detective were afraid that he'd miss out on some great puzzle-solving opportunity, that some conundrum would wander by his flat but choose not to come in if it was forced to knock him up. Lestrade tried the door silently, his entire body tensing even more when it proved to be locked. Damn it! If there wasn't an intruder, if this was all just part of some massively inappropriate prank and he interrupted Dr. Watson in the middle of getting off with some bird, Lestrade was going to strangle Sherlock. Stepping back a pace, he gave the door a solid kick right at the lock. It sprang open obediently, the jamb splintering.

"Police! Freeze!" Lestrade cried and he rushed into the room, hoping devoutly that none of the detritus of Sherlock's experiments would trip him up. No one froze at his entry, no one even responded except Sherlock himself, who twitched and moaned on the sofa beside the wall. Giving the space a quick once over and seeing no initial signs of housebreakers, murders, kidnappers or any other form of villain, Lestrade marched over to the sofa and took Sherlock carefully by the shoulders. Wary of the backbrace, and even more wary of an injury severe enough to actually make Sherlock wear the benighted thing, Lestrade shook his consultant tentatively. When this treatment generated nothing more than a groan in response, the detective cursed and shook him a little harder.

"It's the morphine, dear," Mrs. Hudson said from behind him as she switched on the lamp by the door.

Lestrade looked over his shoulder at her, scowling. "I told you stay downstairs." The older woman was standing there with a fire iron clutched in her hands.

She frowned nervously but didn't respond, and Lestrade went back to glaring at the still sleeping Sherlock. "It's the medication, Inspector. Dr. Watson has him on some quite strong pain pills. It's the only way he can sleep, especially with that brace, and Dr. Watson won't let him take it off a day sooner than the surgeon said – "

"Damn it!" Lestrade briefly considered sending her back to her flat, but he hadn't had either the time or the ability to clear the rest of the building. For all he knew there could be someone hiding in 221c or in the attics above 221b… or even somewhere else within 221b. "Stay with him," Lestrade ordered, gesturing at Sherlock, "and this time, do as I say or I'll arrest you for obstruction when this is all over, I swear I will."

Mrs. Hudson bristled in outrage, but she came meekly over to the sofa and perched on the cushions by Sherlock's feet. "What's that?" she asked, nodding toward the coffee table. Lestrade followed her gaze and saw a laptop sitting there open, its screen dark.

"Isn't it Sherlock's?"

She shook her head. "No, and it's not Dr. Watson's either. That one looks quite expensive to me, like the one my grandson Toby got last Christmas."

Lestrade leaned down and carefully tapped the spacebar with just the tip of his fingernail to avoid smudging any potential prints. The monitor immediately came to life, an internet video chat window open on the screen, showing an image of a space he didn't recognize. He frowned at it, but his reaction was nothing to Mrs. Hudson's. "Why, that's Dr. Watson's room!" she gasped. "Why ever would Sherlock have been looking at pictures of – "

"Which way?" Lestrade demanded.

"What?"

"Where's Dr. Watson's room?"

"Through the kitchen and up the stairs," Mrs. Hudson replied, visibly tightening her grip on the fire iron and glancing uneasily at the computer.

"Stay with Sherlock. There may still be someone here. Scream if… well, yell your bloody head off if you need me." He didn't pause for her response, but headed through the kitchen and up the stairs at a run. Based on what he'd seen on the screen, Lestrade didn't think anyone was still in Dr. Watson's room, but he was taking no chances. He swept up the stairs as silently as he could and kicked that door open as well. Empty. The whole damn room was empty, but with clear signs of a struggle. The duvet was hanging half off the bed, and the lamp on the bedside table had been knocked onto its side, the bulb still burning. Clothing and shoes were strewn about the floor. In any other bachelor's bedroom, Lestrade wouldn't have thought twice about such a minor mess, but the rest of the room was immaculately neat. The books on their shelves were dust free and arranged alphabetically. The wardrobe, when he nudged it open, proved to be full of clothing that was carefully sorted by type, weight and color. Good God on a bicycle. How a man that obsessively organized could stand living with Sherlock, the DI couldn't imagine. In fact, this room was the only one in that flat that wasn't overrun with the consulting detective's experiments, gadgets, equipment, and general mess.

More alarming than the mess was the expensive laptop lying on the floor, its screen cracked and dark, and the window standing open on the wall between the bed and the nightstand. The curtains blew inward, a light rain accompanying them and dampening the small carpet on the floorboards by the bed. Lestrade leaned out the window and peered downward, shining his torch into the darkness. There was no fire escape, no ladder, not even a knotted up string of linens. In the alley three floors below, something glinted in the rain, but he couldn't get a decent look at it from up here. The alley behind 221 Baker Street was a narrow one, really more of a walkway between buildings, and the residence directly to the rear of 221 was a mere five feet away, just far enough to allow the windows on both buildings to open without knocking into each other. The window directly opposite John's bedroom window was also open, a light shining from within what appeared to be an otherwise empty room. Focusing the torch on that other window ledge, Lestrade could see deep, fresh gouges in the wood of the window ledge, as if a sharp, heavy object had recently been dragged across it.

No sign of movement.

No sign of the intruders.

No sign of Dr. Watson anywhere.

Fuck!

"Oh! Oh, hel – "

Lestrade spun as he heard a shriek from Mrs. Hudson and quickly hissed a request to know where the hell his backup was into his radio. Then, without waiting for a response, he rocketed back down the stairs, the torch clutched in one hand and the baton held ready in the other. He came up short at the foot of the stair with the barrel of an MP5 pointed directly at his chest. For a moment he simply froze. He had time for one brief thought of, "I'm dead," before his mind looked past the rifle and registered the letters SFO imprinted on the armored chest of the helmeted man standing before him.

"Drop your weapons," the officer ordered, and he dropped them without hesitation. It was best not to argue with a man with a submachine gun. The SFO kicked the baton and torch out of easy reach, as Lestrade started to speak.

"My name is – "

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," another man finished for him, coming into the kitchen. The second man was dressed much like the first save for a patch on his uniform identifying him as Chief Inspector. Just Chief Inspector. The portion of the patch giving his name was missing, and Lestrade's eyes narrowed in puzzlement, but he quickly dismissed the discrepancy in favor of using the resources suddenly presented him. "Come with me," the chief said, gesturing.

Snatching up his equipment, Lestrade followed quickly after him. "Chief, I received a report of a break in here. Now, Dr. John Watson seems to be missing, and – " Lestrade broke off as they walked into a sitting room swarming with SFOs in full riot gear. Ballistic armor, ballistic helmets, equipment vests and weapons clearly visible. One of them was gently lowering a bleating and babbling Mrs. Hudson into Dr. Watson's armchair. Another was squatting next to the sofa, an open medical kit by her side as she shone a penlight back and forth across Sherlock's eyes. The consulting detective flinched, but did not otherwise react. Surely he was far too deeply out, no matter how much pain medication Dr. Watson had given him.

"We're aware of the situation, Inspector. Steps are already being taken."

"Listen to me!" Lestrade demanded. "I think Dr. Watson had been abducted, taken through his bedroom window and into the building behind – "

"Inspector, I assure you, we're on top of this. Sergeant Lewis," the chief barked. "Status report!"

A woman standing by the window turned, a small laptop in her hands. "CCTV footage is still coming in, Sir."

"Speed it up, Sergeant," he ordered. She nodded without once taking her eyes from the laptop and resumed speaking quietly to someone over an earpiece.

The chief spoke into his own com, receiving answers on his earbud from what sounded like more SFOs spread throughout the building. A few of those trickled past the door to the flat, methodically clearing the rest of the building. All of them were visibly armed and expecting trouble.

Lestrade turned and looked back at the sofa. The officer kneeling there – the DI assumed she must be some sort of paramedic as well as a constable – had rolled back the sleeves of both Sherlock's robe and his nightshirt, revealing one pale arm all the way up to his biceps. As he watched, she dropped a cotton ball on the floor beside her, pulled a syringe from her kit, broke off the safety cap, slid the needle into the skin of Sherlock's arm and depressed the plunger.

"Hey, what are you – " Lestrade began, stepping forward hastily, but he'd hardly moved when Sherlock sprang upward with a gasp, his body completely rigid, and not because of the backbrace. The younger man, gulped in air, his eyes wide and staring blindly up at the ceiling, then he rolled abruptly over and began to vomit on the floor.

"What did you give him?" Lestrade asked anxiously, grabbing the constable by the arm. The patch on her sleeve said Stevens. She shook him off, and leaned forward to help support Sherlock as he retched all over the carpet, his body spasming. "What?" Lestrade repeated.

"Naloxone," she said brusquely. "Point seventy-five milligrams."

"Heroin?" Lestrade asked, blanching. He knew Sherlock had once had a drug problem, had in fact been through rehabilitation as a younger man, but so far as the DI knew, his consultant was clean these days. If he'd fallen off the wagon, now of all times…

"Morphine," she corrected, jerking her chin in the direction of a small vial sitting on the edge of the coffee table. "Don't touch it. ERU is already on the way."

Lestrade's eyes widened at the news that the evidence recovery team had already been sent for. "Where was it?" he asked.

"Under the edge of the sofa, and there's an injection mark on his upper arm."

"He was already on pain medication for his back," Lestrade said urgently. "Will he – "

Lestrade jerked back as Sherlock flipped over and swung a fist at the constable. Rather than ducking, Stevens latched onto his arm and tried to restrain him. Weak as he was, though, Sherlock fought dirty, more like a street chav than a genius toff educated in public school. Lestrade jumped forward to help her, a delicate business with both of them trying not to hurt Sherlock while simultaneously trying to keep him from hurting _them_.

"Sherlock," Lestrade called. "Sherlock!"

At last, the younger man seemed to recognize who was holding him and subsided back onto the sofa, shivering. "John? Where's… where's… John?" he gasped out, shaking the constable off with a trembling hand. "What's happened?"

"You were drugged," Lestrade said, surprised to see Sherlock this rational with the triple dose of drugs in his system. The consultant was shaking, and a sweat had broken out on his flushed face.

"John?" Sherlock demanded heatedly.

"I don't know."

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"I'm alright, love," the landlady said, hurrying over and straightening Sherlock's robes, brushing back his hair and thoroughly getting in the constable's way. Sherlock, to Lestrade's extreme surprise, tolerated this fussing and even leaned against her for a bit. "Oh, dear. Oh, dear," she babbled. "Oh, poor Dr. Watson. Oh, just let me go get something to get all this sick cleaned up."

"Leave it, ma'am," the constable said, exasperated. "It's evidence."

"Evidence! But how – "

"Sir!" Lestrade turned at the exclamation from the SFO by the window, Sergeant Lewis. "Sir, we've got them. ARV's ready to roll, second unit already on the way."

"Let's go people!" the chief called. "Stevens, Davies, stay with Mr. Holmes and Mrs. Hudson. The rest of you, move out." When Lestrade started to follow after them, the chief turned to him and said, "Not you, Lestrade. You're to remain here and take control of the scene. ERU is on its way."

"I'm MIT. Housebreaking and abduction are outside my jurisdiction," Lestrade insisted, though this wasn't entirely true. Exceptions had been made in the past, but he was damned if he was going to stay behind when Dr. Watson needed help.

"I know who you are, and this abduction is directly related to one of your open cases, Detective Inspector. I haven't the time to explain now."

"I'm coming with you," Lestrade insisted. "Your other people can maintain the integrity of the scene."

"I'm ordering you to – "

"He goes!" Sherlock yelled, and they both turned to see the younger man sitting up shakily on the sofa. Constable Stevens was in the process of giving him a second injection, presumably more Naloxone, but Sherlock ignored her with supreme indifference as she poked at his arm. "Lestrade, get John back."

Lestrade and the chief stared at Sherlock in equal surprise for an instant, then the DI looked back at the chief to see that the man's jaw was clenched in annoyance. The man's gaze grew abstracted for a moment, and he said, speaking into his com, "This is Bronze. Go ahead." The chief's eyes widened and his gaze sharpened on Sherlock before flicking decisively to Lestrade. To the DI's disbelief, the chief then nodded and said, "Fine. You're coming then."

Lestrade didn't question the man's change of heart, he just nodded once at Sherlock, holding that intense gray-eyed gaze for a moment, and then raced down the stairs and out of the building after the SFOs. They all ran down to the street where two cars, including Lestrade's, and an unmarked van were waiting in the growing downpour. The chief gestured for Lestrade to climb into the van. Once inside, one of sergeants, Williams, handed Lestrade a helmet, which he put on, and then passed him a sidearm, a Glock 17. "I'm not authorized," Lestrade protested automatically.

"You passed the training seven years ago," the sergeant replied with a shrug, unnerving the DI with this Sherlockian display of seeming omniscience.

"Yes, but I handed my authorization back in after the de Menezes incident."

"It's been reissued."

"By whom?" Lestrade demanded, as appalled by this casual change in his status as he was by the pistol itself. His fingers tightened reflexively around the grip. He didn't want this, damn it. Not anymore. Not ever again.

The sergeant just raised an eyebrow and pulled the visor down on her helmet. Lestrade sat in silence as the van surged along the A40. "What's the situation?" Lestrade asked Sergeant Williams, reluctant to interrupt the chief, who was busy speaking with someone over his com.

"The suspect vehicle was spotted approaching the M40. Other ARVs are en route. CCTV footage indicates there may have been an accident."

"Any sign of a hostage?"

"Unknown?"

"Any idea who the suspect is?"

"If we knew that for certain – "

"It's Moriarty," the chief said, breaking into their conversation suddenly. "And whatever he's up to, he's botched it this time because the van they took Dr. Watson away in is lying on its side in the middle of the bloody M40. It was struck broadside by a lorry."


	4. Chapter 4

_Author's Note: Okay folks, sorry to say this is a somewhat shorter section. I plead the following: illness, Christmas, work and family. That pretty much covers all the bases. Anyway, the next section will include Sherlock… actually conscience and everything! Let me know how you like this bit, and hopefully you'll have the next – much longer section – by the weekend. _

"Were there any casualties?" Lestrade demanded. "Did they find Dr. Watson?"

"No emergency response on the scene yet, and we've sent word for the LAS and LFB to hold off until an ARV arrives. We don't need any dead paramedics," Chief replied.

"But the delay… " Lestrade grimaced and trailed off. He didn't like it, but it was the right call.

"There's another unit closer than us. They should be there any moment," Williams added reassuringly.

The ARV sped along the A40, heading for the accident as Sergeant Williams helped him into a harness and holster for the Glock 17 – one that fit carefully over the ballistic vest he was already wearing. The harness was followed by a radio pack with an earbud and throat mic. "You're to stay off the com unless you're asked a direct question," Williams instructed, as the van pulled to a halt at the scene of the accident, "and you're to stay with me."

Lestrade waited – like a good little tag-along – for the team to deploy before he got out. Williams was waiting for him. The scene was a mess. Rain was pouring down in sheets now, and the area was but dimly lit by the roadside lamps and the headlights of the vehicles that had backed up behind the crash. Two other police cars, one of them an ARV, were already on the scene along with a fire engine and an ambulance. Lestrade could clearly see the lorry that had plowed into the van that had, presumably, been carrying Dr. Watson away. The van itself, a boxy number with a rear roll-up door emblazoned with a moving company logo, was on its side. The frame was bent, but someone had managed to raise the rear door about two feet before it seemed to have jammed in its runners.

Lestrade watched as Chief rapidly took control of the scene, and he listened in silence as the rest of the team deployed around the site. From the chatter on the com, he picked up that the occupants of the van had fled immediately following the accident, hijacking another car at gunpoint and summarily ejecting the driver. The bloke was lucky not to have been _summarily _executed in Lestrade's opinion. Only one of the villains remained, and he was unconscious and pinned in the driver's seat, half of the vehicle's partially crumpled engine sitting in his lap. Whether he'd live was in doubt. Whether he'd ever wake up was in even more doubt. The driver of the lorry, also pinned inside the cab of his vehicle, was in somewhat better shape, and as Lestrade watched, paramedics began the laborious process of extracting him from his lorry. Thankfully, there were no dead bodies, certainly none matching the description of a 5'7" blond man of thirty-eight. There was no sign of a hostage anywhere. Not dead was good, but missing was dreadful.

Lestrade knew that the chief's team was already attempting to track the stolen car, that the owner had given them immediate access to the vehicle's GPS tracker.

"How many men got into your car?" the officer who'd questioned him had asked solemnly.

"Three! Those three bastards – "

"Did any of the men seem unwilling or be under duress in any way?"

"No, damn it!" the driver had yelled. "They were all sodding nutters!"

Other witnesses to the crash and the subsequent hijacking were being questioned quickly for any information they could give, some waiting in their cars, others huddled together and watching the extraction of the lorry driver from his vehicle with wide eyes. All that could be done was being done, but that didn't make it any easier for him to stand by and watch, doing nothing while a good man was lost, maybe forever. How had everything gone so bloody pear-shaped so bloody quickly?

Extracting the lorry driver from his vehicle had been relatively simple, but the emergency response team was having a good deal more trouble retrieving the driver of the van. Lestrade looked on in growing frustration as they applied a cutter to the van's frame in an attempt to free the warped passenger-side door, the driver's door being pressed again the pavement and an even less plausible exit. He looked away in startlement, however, when his mobile beeped in his pants pocket. Pulling it out, he saw that he had a text from Sherlock of all people.

GL,

REMEMBER, IT'S MORIARTY

SH

Lestrade contemplated this message for a full ten seconds, then broke into a run, heading straight for the emergency crew and the van. He came up short, however, when Sergeant Williams grabbed him by the arm and spun him to a stop. "What is it?" she demanded.

"Stop them! We have to stop them!"

"Chief," Williams said, pitching her voice for the com to pick up. "We have a problem." She didn't release her grip on his arm, but the Chief was already trotting over to them and Lestrade didn't bother to try and shake her loose.

"What is it, Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

"The emergency crews need to be on the lookout for explosives," Lestrade said. "You said before that this abduction was connected to my case. If you're right, if it is Moriarty, then he's – "

Lestrade never finished his sentence because at that instant, the moving van was abruptly engulfed in flame. There was no blast, no explosion, no sound at all except for the soft whumph of the growing fireball, the yelling of the spectators, and the appalling screams of the rescue workers who'd been caught in the sudden conflagration. Between the rain and the fire suppressant laid down by the firefighters, the thing shouldn't have been able to burn at all, but it going up like dry grass soaked in petrol. For a moment, everyone just stared in shock, then the remaining rescue workers rushed forward en masse to help their fellows, Chief's team right behind them. Lestrade gaped in horror as one of the firefighters collapsed to the carriageway, utterly still except for the flames that danced along his body. Two more firefighter dropped fire blankets over him, but the DI knew it had to be too late. The man simply had to be dead. The driver of the van, their only link to Moriarty, also had to be dead. A paramedic was screaming as another man held him still while a third worked to remove the half-melted clothing from his torso. Dismayed, Lestrade looked away, turning his gaze from the disaster to the crowd that hovered nearby watching the tragedy unfold. All eyes were on the fire and its aftermath… almost all eyes. One woman wasn't watching the flames. Instead, she was looking in the direction of a small copse of trees as she pulled nervously at the ends of her scarf. She was standing with the group of witnesses that hadn't been questioned yet.

Without pausing to consider any further, Lestrade ran for her. She jerked back with a start when he broke to a halt beside her, Williams trailing after him like the tail of the dog. "What did you see?" he asked without preamble.

"What? I... I didn't…"

Resisting the urge to grab the woman and shake her, Lestrade took a slow, calming breath. She was young, maybe as much as twenty-two, maybe not. Her long brown hair was soaked, dripping steadily onto her already sodden clothing, and she looked utterly terrified by his sudden armed and armoured appearance before her.

"Have you been questioned by anyone yet?" he asked softly, forcing his adrenalin-filled body to a calm he didn't really feel.

She shook her head nervously, and one of the men in the crowd stepped up beside her, glaring at Lestrade and his shadow. Great, a would-be Galahad, that was all the DI needed.

Still speaking slowly and gently, Lestrade said, "Did you see anything unusual, ma'am? Anything besides the crash?"

She hesitated, but her gaze turned once more toward the copse of trees that stood between the motorway and one of its curving off-ramps. Lestrade followed the drift of her eyes. The area was a dark one, the street lights failed to penetrate the canopy and only a few small accent lights at the base of some of the trees provided any illumination at all. He thought for a second that he saw movement among the foliage, but that could just be his eyes playing trick. Then again, it could be exactly what he was looking for.

"What did you see?" Lestrade asked again, this time without looking back at the young woman. She was panicky, on the verge of hysteria just from being confronted, and an illusion of privacy, of distance would help to calm her. "Just tell me what happened. Don't worry about how it sounds."

"Okay. I…. okay." She gulped audibly, but she sounded somewhat steadier when she continued. Williams, thankfully, said nothing, fading into the background. "I was right behind the accident. I was sitting in my Golf, holding onto the steering wheel and… crying and waiting for someone to rear-end me in the rain and… I saw him get out of the van."

"Saw who?" the Galahad demanded, sounding intrigued. Lestrade cursed him silently and shot a quick glance at his witness, but the girl perked up from the less official attention of her would-be protector.

"A man got out of the back of the van, right after the accident. No one had even gotten out of their cars yet, but this gent came crawling out, only… he was… " She turned back to Lestrade, shaking her head in self-abnegation. "I must have seen wrong."

"Don't worry about how it sounds, honestly, just tell," he smiled and looked up at the looming Galahad, "_us_ what you saw, miss…"

"Gemma. Gemma Whitsock, and he was starkers."

Lestrade's breath caught in his chest, and the DI leaned closer to his witness. "You saw a naked man get out of the _back_ of the van, the part where people don't normally ride."

"Yes."

"Cor!" Galahad put in helpfully.

"Where did he go?" Lestrade demanded. "Did you see exactly where he went?"

"I'm not sure," she said hesitantly, shaking a bit of rain off her face. The downpour was letting up slightly, but the temperature was dropping just as fast and all of them were shivering with the cold. "I was watching him, just sort of gobsmacked, but I looked away when those other men stole that poor bloke's car. It was terrifying. I was sure they were going to start shooting people and we'd have a massacre and I'd get blood all over my sister's shirt."

"Your sister?" Galahad asked. "Is she here too? You shouldn't be alone or anything."

"No, I'm just wearing her – "

"The man?" Sergeant Williams broke in.

"Oh, when I looked back he was gone."

"Did you notice anything else," Lestrade asked anxiously. "Did he look injured? Anything?"

She shook her head. "I couldn't see much. I wasn't even really certain he was stark – naked. I thought I saw something, I don't know, shiny or something, but that's it."

The DI nodded. "Alright, Miss Whitsock, I need you to get back in your car and wait quietly until someone comes to question you in more detail."

"Did I do okay?" she asked nervously.

"You did fine. Now, get in out of the rain and maybe Mr…"

"Allen," Galahad said quickly.

"Mr. Allen will wait with you. Won't you Mr. Allen?"

"Absolutely," he nodded, smiling.

Lestrade turned away and put a hand on William's shoulder. "Make sure someone comes to get her," he said. She was already issuing instructions into her com when he pulled the Glock and headed for the trees. Williams followed after him, still barking out urgent commands as they jogged over to the small greenbelt. Though the rain had lightened up, the darkness was as deep as ever, and Lestrade and his shadow paused at the edge of the trees.

"You think it's one of the kidnappers?" she whispered, with a jerk of her chin at the pistol.

"No, but I also don't want to be ambushed by anyone else who might be hanging about looking for Dr. Watson," he whispered back, and together they eased into the deeper darkness beneath the trees. Flickering flashes of light from the fire burning fatally behind them gave the illusion of movement to the world around them without really piercing the gloom. Lestrade and Williams both pulled their torches, shining the narrow beams across the sodden ground, searching for any sign that someone had passed that way. The rain made everything harder. Any blood from a person fleeing the accident would have been washed away the instant it fell. Muddy ground would certainly hold tracks, but water stood so deep in the hollow of the copse that tracks were impossible to see.

"Bugger this," Lestrade snapped, then he pulled in a deep breath and bellowed, "Dr. Watson! John Watson, are you here? Dr. Watson, can you hear me?" The DI could barely hear himself over the sound of the rain on the leaves overhead and the whistle of the fire and rush of the fire pumps behind them. "John!"


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

There was no response, and they kept searching, paying particular attention to the boundaries of the greenbelt, on the lookout for anything that might indicate their quarry had left the area. If had wandered beyond the copse, he could be anywhere by now. Lestrade's mind flashed back to a scene from that American movie with Tommy Lee Jones and Harrison Ford that his ex-wife had loved so much – average foot-speed over uneven ground barring injury is four miles an hour. So, not _anywhere_ then, but far enough to make finding him a major undertaking. They needed more people… and better weather, damn it.

"You really think he's hiding in here somewhere," Williams asked, turning in a slow circle and looking around at all the ground they'd already covered.

"I somehow doubt that one of Moriarty's crew is wandering around naked in the rain."

"But why would Dr. Watson hide? I get why'd he'd run away at first, but you've been calling to him for a solid thirty minutes. If he was hiding, surely he'd have come out by now."

"Not necessarily," Lestrade countered. "He was abducted from his home, so emotionally traumatised. He's just been in a serious motor accident, so probably physically traumatised as well, and if he really is naked, I don't want to think about what else he may have been through."

"Still, if he was well enough to run from the accident, then he should be well enough to ask for help."

"And he's an Afghani war veteran who was badly injured in an ambush and subsequently invalided home."

"Shit," Williams said, coming to a stop and looking up at the DI with a particularly focused expression. "You're thinking PTSD."

"I'm thinking he may not be able to tell friend from foe right now," Lestrade replied, the beam of his torch pausing on the small opening of an old stone culvert that they'd passed by twice before. It was narrow and half-filled with water, but it was just possible… The DI leaned down to look at the opening more closely. Was that blood on the edge of one of the stones? The shot that came whizzing past his head was all the answer he needed.

"Son of bitch!" Williams cried, pointing her own sidearm at the opening even as Lestrade dropped flat on the muddy ground before the opening, instinctively covering his head with his hands despite the ballistic helmet the SFOs had forced on him. The helmet jerked sideways on his head, pulling uncomfortably at his chin and bending his neck awkwardly as he face-planted on the muddy ground. He could hear Williams sending an urgent call for backup even as he began to inch sideways, trying to get out of the line of fire. There were no more shots, but a voice he barely recognised rang out from the depths of the culvert, echoes bouncing off the stone.

"_Vaysa! Ye aampool meezanamet_!"

Once he was certain he'd moved far enough out of the potential danger zone, Lestrade ripped off the begrimed helmet. "Dr. Watson, it's Detective Inspector Lestrade! Can you hear me?"

"_Man ra tanha bohzarid_! _Man doctoRam_! _Man ra tanha bohzarid_!"

"Dr. Watson, please, I'm here to help you."

"_Lutfan, man ra tanha bohzarid_!"

"That's Watson, right?" Williams hissed, crouching down beside him. Lestrade nodded, and she focused her torch on the opening again. "What's he saying?"

"I don't sodding know! I don't even know what language he's speaking. It sounds Middle Eastern."

"Guessing you were right about the PTSD being a problem then," she noted dryly.

"Yeah, well, right now I wish I was bloody wrong." They both flinched as a second shot echoed from within the culvert, followed by the muffled sounds of splashing. Far less muffled was the approach of Williams' team double-timing it to their position.

"Status!" Chief barked as he dropped down beside them. Lestrade tuned them out as Williams explained, straining for any more sounds from inside the culvert. The drainage tunnel was full of icy rainwater and the witness had claimed that John was naked. He'd been in there for more than thirty minutes at a minimum. They had to get him out. They had to get him out _now_. Cursing himself for a fool, Lestrade began to strip off all of his gear except his torch, starting with the holster and ending with the ballistic vest. He'd never be able to squeeze through the opening wearing that thing anyway. After a moment's thought, he dropped battery-pack powered headset and his mobile as well. The water would ruin both anyway. Then, dropping back to his stomach, he began to inch forward. He'd gone no more than a foot, when Chief latched onto the back of his shirt and hauled him up short.

"What do you think you're doing, Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

"Waving the white flag."

"You'll get shot."

"He's a crack marksman. If he wanted to kill me, I'd already be dead."

"You can't know that."

Lestrade hesitated, but only to find the right words. In the end, they were simple enough. "Yes. I can."

"Detective – "

"Look! You brought me for a reason. You were _told_ to bring me along for a reason. If you lot try and drag him out of that hole, someone _will_ get shot. He fires in panic down there and he could be killed by one of his own ricochets. Let me do my job."

Chief gazed at him abstractly for several long seconds, then he nodded as if response to some further statement. Lestrade wondered just what the man was hearing over his own com. Grimacing, Chief said, "Just don't get killed, Lestrade. I have enough dead people on my hands tonight."

Lestrade nodded and began to crawl forward again. When he reached the edge of the opening, he called out. "Dr. Watson, it's Detective Inspector Lestrade. I'm coming in."

"_Ne_!"

"Dr. Watson, I'm unarmed and I just want to help you. I'm coming in. Please don't shoot. It's Lestrade. Greg Lestrade. Do you understand?"

There was no response but no gunshots either. Heart pounding and doubting his own sanity, Lestrade began to squeeze his way through the narrow entrance to the culvert. Once inside, the space opened up slightly, and he was able to walk forward on his knees, water lapping around his freezing thighs. The drain angled downward perceptibly, the runoff from the storm flowing past him, carrying leaves and oil and litter with it. He swept the beam of his torch back and forth, watching for obstructions and dangers. Because he was so focused on the water and what might be hiding beneath it ready to trip him up, Lestrade didn't realise he found his quarry until Dr. Watson spoke.

"_Vaysa_!"

The DI forced himself to raise his head slowly, avoiding sudden movements. He left the torch shining on the water. Dr. Watson might panic if he was suddenly blinded by light and Lestrade really, really didn't want to get his fool self shot. Besides, though it was dark inside the culvert, it was also a small space and the reflected light from the torch was more than enough for him to get a pretty good at his newest police consultant. So he looked.

Crap.

The pistol pointed squarely at Lestrade's chest was bad, the way the hands holding that pistol shook was worse, and yet neither of those were what really worried him. Gemma Whitsock had been dead right. The little doctor was completely starkers and looked frozen clear through to his bones. There was something shiny on him, too… a nice, shiny pair of handcuffs. The pistol was matte black, so Lestrade doubted that it was the weapon she'd seen glinting in the headlights; it had to have been the handcuffs, though they were now caked with mud and what Lestrade feared was drying blood. It was hard to tell without getting a closer look, something he sincerely doubted that Dr. Watson would allow. The doctor had managed to get himself up out of the runoff by climbing up onto some large, gnarled tree roots that had broken their way through the stone of the ancient drainage tunnel. He was stretched out on these on his stomach, elbows propped in front of him, holding the pistol – which he'd presumably appropriated from Moriarty's gang of thugs – in hands so cold that the nails had begun to go blue. The rest of his skin was pale and waxen where it wasn't covered in mud, and the DI wondered just how many bruises lurked beneath the filth. Lestrade was shivering with the cold, but the other man wasn't shaking at all except for his hands. He was almost unnaturally still, barely seeming to breathe.

"Dr. Watson, do you know who I am?" Lestrade asked, shuffling a step closer on his aching knees, careful to keep his hands visible and his manner non-threatening.

The other man just stared at him for a moment, eyes wide and dark, irises barely showing at all. He licked his lips, then said, "You're not Afghani. You're English, aren't you?"

"That's right," Lestrade said encouragingly. "I'm a police officer. Detective Inspector Lestrade. You've been in an accident and I'm here to help you."

"An accident?"

"Yes. You've got a large knot on the side of your head, and you seem to be a little confused."

"I am not confused!" Dr. Watson growled, hands tightening visibly on the grip of the pistol – which only made them shake even more.

"You're a doctor. Tell me, what are the signs of hypothermia?"

"Hypothermia…"

"Please, Dr. Watson, it's important. What are the signs of hypothermia?"

"Cold. Excess shivering or no shivering at all. Change in skin tone. Confusion. Lethargy. Muscles weakness. Joint pain. Loss of coordi… coordi… bugger!"

"Are you experiencing any of those, Dr. Watson?" Lestrade pressed gently, taking another tentative step forward.

"I'm not… I don't…"

"It's forty degrees outside. It's probably colder in here. You're soaking wet, na—" No, the DI thought, probably better not to mention the naked thing or the cuffs or the pistol. Keep it calm. "You're pressed up against a stone wall, and you're not shivering, Dr. Watson. What does all that mean?"

The doctor frowned, blinking rapidly. "Onset of moderate to severe hypothermia," he answered after a moment. "Could lead to loss of consciousness, violent outbursts… death," he whispered the last as he lowered his head to his forearms, the pistol dangling from clearly numb fingers.

"Let me help you." Lestrade urged, reaching forward. It was a mistake. Dr. Watson's head snapped up, and he scrambled backward, slipping off the roots and landing in the icy water. Lestrade dove after him, terrified that the smaller man might actually drown in his current condition. Again he was wrong. Far from drowning, Dr. Watson came up spitting water and epithets with equal verve, still clutching the bloody sidearm and pissed as hell.

"Get back!" he shouted. "Stay the fuck away from me."

"Dr. Watson, please – " Lestrade broke off as the other man turned and retreated further down the drainage tunnel. He couldn't go far, though. When he'd fallen, Lestrade had shone his torch down the tunnel and had gotten a clear, unmistakable glimpse of the grate that stopped the larger bits of debris from washing through the culvert and into the main sewer. There was nowhere for the doctor to go but back out the way they'd come. The trick was convincing him to cooperate. Sedation was right out. The man had a head injury, God only knew what other injuries and he was sick with the cold. Not liking it, but knowing it had to be done, Lestrade turned and hurried back to the opening of the culvert, leaving the doctor behind in the darkness.

As soon as he reached the small opening, he squeezed back through. Hands immediately caught at him and pulled him upright and out of the growing pool of water at the base of the drain. "Well?" Chief demanded.

"I found him. He's injured, confused and going into shock."

"Paramedics – "

"Will get shot!" Lestrade interjected, already annoyed with the interruptions. "I think he vaguely recognises me. You send anybody else in there, and there'll be a bloody brawl. So, here's what you're going to do. You're going to get me two thermal blankets, wrapped in plastic if you can manage it. You're going to get me some kind of clothing he can put on, and you're going to get me something to keep him hydrated. I'm going back in there in two minutes. That's how long you've got." The Chief didn't hesitate. He nodded at Williams, and the sergeant began rattling off his commands to some other member of the team.

"You think you can get him to come out?" Chief demanded.

"No, I don't. So the next thing you're going to do is send one of your people to pick up Sherlock Holmes."

"The man was injured," Chief protested, sounding completely taken aback by the request.

"The man was drugged," Lestrade countered. He'd seen Sherlock overdose before, and he knew how the hyperactive genius' body reacted to both opioids and the Naloxone that counteracted them. By now, he'd be fine – if a bit wrung out – and completely climbing the walls from a combination of enforced inactivity and worry over his flatmate. As for the back brace, that was supposed to come off in a couple of days anyway. Not that Lestrade was about to explain any of that to some unnamed SFO. "Just get him here," Lestrade instructed, "and get him here fast. Damn the speed limits."

Chief turned and walked away, and the DI could only hope that he was doing as he'd asked. He waited, shivering in his water-logged clothing, until one of the SFOs came running over with a stack of fabric in his hands and a carrier bag that looked like a soft-sided lunch pail. Lestrade took the bag and draped it over his shoulder, but he shook his head when the SFO tried to hand him the fabric. "Wait until I'm back through, then hand me the blankets through the opening. Try not to get them in the water, if you can help it."

"Yes, sir," the man said instantly, making Lestrade raise in eyebrows in mild amusement. What his team would think if they could see him barking orders at a bunch of SFOs who acted like the next thing to a military unit, he couldn't imagine. No, actually, he could. Good all around that neither Donovan nor Anderson were in the middle of this mess. He'd never hear the end of it.

He wriggled back through the opening, more than a touch alarmed by how much higher the water was now than the first time he'd gone through. Then, he yelled to the waiting SFO and clutched at the pile of fabric as it was shoved through the narrow opening above the water line. Clutching the bundle tightly, though trying not to get it up against his own damp clothing, Lestrade splashed back through the tunnel. He didn't bother trying to be quiet. The last thing he wanted to do was surprise Dr. Watson. Knowing where he was headed and what to expect made this trip much faster than the first one had been. He found the little doctor back on his root outcropping, but the gun wasn't visible. Still, that didn't mean that Dr. Watson didn't have it anymore. It could be under him, beside him or lost in the water – no way to know.

Lestrade slid to a halt a few feet from his wary colleague. "Me again," he said simply, earning a glare and a snort from the doctor. Leaning over, the DI shoved the barrel of the torch into a crack in the wall. It angled the beam of the torch upward, reflecting light back at them from the grimy, vaulted stone roof of the culvert. Then, smiling and trying not to seem as anxious as he felt, Lestrade inched forward. "I've brought you something to help you stay warm."

"Not cold," Dr. Watson muttered, his words almost unintelligible, and the DI's anxiety ratcheted upwards.

"No, but you should be. Hypothermia. Remember?"

"No…"

"A blanket won't hurt you, either way," Lestrade urged. "A blanket can't hurt you." Carefully juggling the bundles, Lestrade pulled one bright orange shock blanket from the pile and balanced it on his hand, careful to keep it from trailing in the water. "Please, Dr. Watson. Please, wrap this around you."

The man eyed him suspiciously for what felt like ages, but then he reached one begrimed hand forward and snatched at the blanket, but his fingers were clumsy and he couldn't seem to grasp it. He became instantly angry and slapped at the bundle, nearly knocking it out of Lestrade's grip and into the water. "Shit," Lestrade hissed, only barely managing to hold onto his burdens. Then, taking a deep breath, he said, "Look, Dr. Watson, I'm just going to come drape this around you."

"_Vaysa_!" John yelled, relapsing into whatever delusion had initially gripped his mind. "_Ne_!"

"I won't grab you, Lestrade promised softly. "I won't hurt you. I'm not even armed. I just want to put this over you. You don't want people to see you like this, do you, Dr. Watson?"

The man blinked at him in confusion, then, to the DI's surprise, he said, "John… my name's John."

"Okay," Lestrade agreed. "John, then. Now, I'm going to wrap this around you, John. My word on it, nothing else."

The doctor nodded, his head drooping with exhaustion, and Lestrade hurried forward as fast as he dared. He quickly spread the first blanket over the smaller man's torso, then unfolded the second and wrapped it around the man's legs and feet. The doctor started to panic, presumably at the sense of constriction, but his movements were slow and clumsy, and there was almost no fight left in him. It was possible that Lestrade could manhandle him out of the culvert on his own. It was also possible that Dr. Watson would produce that pistol out of thin air and one of them would wind up dead. He shook his head. Stick with the plan, Greg, he thought. Just stick with the plan. Once the blankets were tucked as far as the other man as he could manage, Lestrade took the clothing – someone's jacket and a pair of coveralls that had probably come from one of the ambulances – and examined them thoughtfully. There was no way he was going to be able to get the doctor dressed, even if he'd cooperate, so he draped the jacket over the doctor's torso.

"John, lift your head," Lestrade said, his own teeth chattered as the cold seeped into his bones. Dr. Watson wasn't the only one in serious danger of hypothermia. John just gaped at him mutely, and Lestrade gave up on trying to get the coverall under the other man's head. He bundled it around the doctor's feet, which felt icy even to Lestrade's chilled fingers, and then dug into the lunch pail. Two water bottles, a foil-wrapped sandwich and a packet of biscuits. Someone's night-shift lunch from the looks of it. Pulling out a water bottle, Lestrade screwed off the top and held it out. "John, you need to drink some of this."

"_Ne_."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. He had a funny feeling he could guess what _ne_ meant. "It's just water, John. You need to stay hydrated. Please drink some."

"Surrou… surround… nothing but bloody water in here," the doctor grumbled, and Lestrade couldn't help the small laugh that escaped him.

"Yeah, but this is clean water. Please drink." He kept at it, pestering the other man in as non-threatening a manner as he could until he managed to coax him to take a drink. Then it became a matter of slowing him down. Lestrade was pretty sure that drinking too fast was a bad idea for someone in Dr. Watson's condition. Then, all he could do was metaphorically sit down and wait for backup in the form of the world's only consulting detective.

Lestrade's own legs had passed beyond cold and numb to feeling like daggers were being shoved willy nilly into the muscles when he heard the sound he'd been straining for, someone else splashing down the long tunnel toward him. It was far too soon for it to be Sherlock, though, and Lestrade braced, prepared to have to chivy the intruder back out if Dr. Watson started to panic. He relaxed, however, when he heard a familiar voice calling from the darkness beyond the torch's light.

"John? John! Damn it, Lestrade, where are you?"

"Here," Lestrade called, placing a restraining hand on the doctor's shoulder when he jerked and nearly fell of the narrow root shelf at the sound of his flatmate's voice. Sherlock, still in his night clothes, with the addition of a heavy parka that Lestrade had never seen before, came slogging into view, practically running despite the fact that he was moving about on his knees just as the DI had.

"Of all the asinine, foolish, idiotic things to do," Sherlock groused as he came to a halt beside the detective and near stuporous doctor. "Whatever possessed you to crawl in here?" When there was no response, Sherlock's eyes narrowed and then flashed angrily to Lestrade's face. "He's ill. Why haven't you gotten him out of this hole?"

Grinding his teeth, Lestrade bit down on his first three responses. He settled on the simple truth. "Because he's confused, because he's only just let me get close enough to touch him, and because he's got a bloody pistol, Sherlock!" Lestrade hissed. Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, no doubt at great length, but he never had the opportunity.

"Sherlock!" John cried, sitting up so abruptly that he smacked his head against the wall of the culvert and nearly fell back into the water. Both men caught at him, getting handfuls of blanket and chilly, damp skin. "Sherlock… Moriarty… he's… " The doctor began to shake, great tremors that ran from his feet to his head, and his eyes rolled back, showing only whites.

Lestrade swore even as Sherlock said, matter-of-factly, exactly what he was thinking. "Seizure. We have to get him out of here. Now."

Tbc

_Author's Note: Okay, if anyone reading this actually speaks Farsi/Dari/Persian, I beg your indulgence. The only Farsi I know, I learned from one of my students and he mostly taught me swear words and how to count to twenty. Standard stuff. Anyway, finding decent online translators for free for English to Farsi proved to be quite an adventure. So, once again, I crave pardon if my grammar/vocabulary is completely insane. If anyone has any corrections on this, I would be delighted to receive them. Thank you, and remember that reviews are love. Catslyn._


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